


Uncomplete

by driftingrainbows_P



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Art, Classical Music, Classical References, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Music, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driftingrainbows_P/pseuds/driftingrainbows_P
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drabble on the lives of Erik and Christine post Populaire fire. Two lost and broken souls find solace in each other. EC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncomplete

**Author's Note:**

> The author claims nothing nor derives profits from this. All she owns are some Erik plushies and long stemmed thornless roses, tied with signature black ribbons? Anybody? /waves paraphernalia about
> 
> Please note that for my convenience all dates are pushed a year back or so, so the movie ends in 1870. That way, I don't have to deal with the French Revolution.

 

2 Months after the Populaire fire, 1870.

Life. It was almost a thing that he could really crush in his fingers, an object like a candle so easily snuffed out. In the gloomy darkness, a tall figure stalked amongst the remains of the place he had called home for almost twenty years of his solitude. Brought there when he was but a mere seven years of age, he had lived his solitary life in tears. Now nearing his thirties, the sprightly figure looked around at the shattered glass and charred remains of disuse and hatred, of the mob that had ravished and ransacked him home coldly in the hours following the fire at the Populaire.

He heaved a heavy sigh, turning his eyes towards the dark portcullis, where he had last lashed that insufferable boy to, only to let him go with his love, his angel who he would never have.

Her name was like gilded honey on his lips as he let out a shaky breath and sat heavily on the swan bed where he had last seen her, and touched her, his goddess of song. And she had pressed the ring he had slipped onto her fingers, back into his calloused palm, almost a rejection of him! No, it certainly was. There was no way such an ethereal creature could love this repulsive beast that he was, never. And yet, the last final look she had thrown him as she stood behind that useless fop…His heart skipped a beat and wrenched itself into endless knots. Damn that boy and his perfect looks and mannerisms, to waltz into his life and steal away his angel! Granted, they had a history dating back since her birth, and yet he could not reconcile himself to the fact that Christine, his Christine was gone. 

Or was she?

~

The church bells could be tolling for her death, for all she could care about. All she thought of was the promise she had left him. Would he understand? Would he comprehend, in his rage? All she could dream of was the fire that burned in his eyes, burned through her soul, saw her clear and pure and whole, and made her ache, so much for a soul long irreparable as the world should perceive him. Heavens above, she was to be married soon! And to her childhood best friend! 

She shook her head, clearing the thought of those clear, grey green eyes with their piercing, fiery gaze…Her husband to be exited the priest’s room, giving small thanks and making small talk to the priest. She wanted to retch, to cry, for he fickle heart. Silently she bowed her head in reverent prayer, praying to a God she never understood, praying for forgiveness of her heart and soul.

~

Raoul sat in silence in the carriage beside Christine, looking over at the auburn haired female that sat beside him. Of all the females in the country, he had picked her and yet, instead of being the happy, loving fiancée he had expected her to be, she had been sullen, withdrawing from his touches after he had proposed to her. She had accepted, certainly, but he could see the sadness in her eyes, her longing for only one singular man, no, monster.

He could still hear it, the ringing in his ears, the night of the fire, the Populaire crashing down around them in heaps, the pandemonium as it erupted around them and he dashed down into the endless depths of hell…He was sure that that monster had cast a spell over his lovely young bride-to-be, to steal her soul and body whole. He was sure he had ravished her, as from the endless rumors of she being the Phantom’s whore, of her spreading her legs like a common ballet rat…He shook the thought away, no, such an innocent creature like Christine would never be swayed by such a dark creature, repulsive and hated.

~X~

She had returned to the cemetery, now ablaze in the deepest hues of red and orange while tinged in green. Holding the same roses, as she always had to place at her father’s grave, she regretted his presence. The last time she had come, he had taken the place of the driver. She had known, but had said nothing, wanting him nearby her as she had taken the long walk to her father’s grave.

She had felt calm, knowing her Angel was near. Now that he was not around, Christine felt the chill of the autumn seeping into the very core of her bones, almost wanting to break down and cry. She said a silent prayer as she walked, for her Angel and for her father, and for Mamma Valerius, recently deceased. She thought of the three angels that had left her, sobbing softly for her Angel, her masked Angel and the Phantom, after she had received news in the Époque that he was dead. Trying to curb the feeling surging in her heart, she pressed forth, lying at the foot of her father’s grave to silently sob.

“Father, I am so sorry!” Tears coursed down her alabaster smooth cheeks, the leaves rustling beneath her skirts. “The Angel you sent me…and I killed him…I killed him, and now I shall kill another with…with my fickle senseless heart! Oh Father, if only, if only you would give me a second chance! Hear my cry, for I truly loved him! If only, if only…”

~  
The black cloaked figure standing behind the coffin in her father’s crypt shifted. Did he just hear Christine admit her love for him?

No!

It had to be a lie. She couldn't love him! Not after what he had done! He shook his head violently; holding back as she continued in pleading that she may see her Angel again. What lies he had published in the papers was for her sake. She would be better with the Vicomte, her insufferable lover and fop. He would care for her and treat her as the Princess she had always wanted to be, a life full of glitz and glamour and being preened and pimped and showed off at parties like his prized possession…He gritted his teeth in frustration and got up, intending to leave before Christine could even enter the crypt to rearrange the objects inside…

Too late.

For she was staring at him with her wide doe-like eyes, stifling a gasp as she rushed forth to embrace him, tears streaming down her cheeks. He looked down at her slim fingers, and found himself puzzled. Was she not yet that insufferable fop’s wife? He had painstakingly procured a copy of the Époque day by day, and as such, had discovered of that boy’s impending marriage to her. As to when, he never really found out, save for that it was sometime soon. As such, he had made plans to leave, but now…he couldn't! Yet he must. He steeled himself and pushed a very puzzled Christine Daae aside, whipping his cloak around him as he escaped into the night and away from her, melting easily into the shadows as he had always done.

~X~  
Christine awoke at the Opera Populaire residences, which had been rebuilt in record time due to an unnamed lump sum of money suddenly entering the scene, although she and Madame Giry had a clear inkling of where such finances had come from. Erik! She suddenly recalled the events of the day before. And he had fled! She scrambled out of bed to find a long stemmed red rose, tied in his customary black ribbon. Beside it was a note, written in elegant script.

Dear Christine Daae,

I fear for you, and your reputation. It is for the best, and for everything, that I have decided to leave you. However, I promise that I will continue to watch over you. Trust me, this is for the best. Make no attempt to see me again, for I assure you, ma cherie, all your attempts will be in vain.

I apologize for the horror that all my mannerisms has been thus far, and I apologize for the trouble I have caused you and your lover. As such, I will leave you in peace.

Farwell, my dearest Angel.

Yours,  
Erik.

The simple scrawl brought tears to her eyes, pricking at her eyelids. Erik, so that was his name! Mon dieu, Erik, Erik, she wanted to scream, you lovable thing, I love you! Instead, bringing the parchment to her nose, she breathed in his spicy, exotic scent, clutching the paper to her breast as she fainted dead away.

~X~

Three months had passed since the chandelier disaster, and Christine still lingered in his heart like a barb embedded into his flesh eternally. He would never be rid of his love for her, even as he rode his horse across the wild mountains of Switzerland. The horse was jet black, aptly named Cesar as the horse he had originally procured for Christine the first day he had brought her to his lair. He passed through the wild ruins of the mountains, meeting with traveling fairs few and far wide, of which he assumed them to be gypsies. Fearing for him to be exhibited again or worse, turned into the authorities, he had dismounted upon catching wind of them, instead preferring to slink around in the darkness with the gangly beast he had stolen. 

~X~

Christine knocked gently on the door to Madame Giry’s apartments, feeling that she would go insane if she held in her feelings a moment longer. She was about to burst, and when the elderly, motherly ballet mistress opened the door, she collapsed in an undignified heap in her arms.

“Whatever can be the matter child, collect yourself!” Giry rebuked in a gentle yet stern tone.

Christine shook her head, her wild ringlets falling around her face.

“Madame, I can hold it no longer. I…killed Raoul de Changy.”

Antoinette Giry let out a soft gasp. Christine, a gentle lamb, and killing? It could hardly be perceived in a sentence and yet this child had stated it so purely, so directly, like the day itself. The young girl in her arms began to sob again, and began to tell her tale.

“It was a stormy night, and two nights before my wedding. Raoul had entered the house drunk as a sailor, with his own set of wandering hands and foul mouths. He had almost forced himself on me, and I pushed him off me, setting off his fury. He set himself on me then, screaming about Erik and how he would kill him. In fear, I pushed him aside, and out of the house, Maman don't interrupt, I am not even sure of myself how I had performed such a feat. And the next day I found that he had died, the coroner claiming he had an aneurysm and a carriage had run him over…oh Madame, it was so horrifying…”

Christine had been reduced to a sobbing pile by this time, in hysterics as she clawed at the black skirt of Madame Giry, repeating over and over again how, if she had never been so fickle, Raoul would still be alive now…

Madame Giry sighed, and rang the bell for the maid, to get her two cups of tea. She settled the child before her, setting the tea before the other. In a hushed voice, she comforted her, before sliding a cream white envelope over the table to Christine.

**Author's Note:**

> I still don't make money off this. Comments?


End file.
